Chapter3: The Pull
1055 Words
Calla dreamed of wolves.
Not the kind that howled at the moon or skulked through forests on padded feet. No, these wolves had eyes like knives and voices like smoke. They whispered her name from the trees, from the fire, from beneath the floorboards. And every time she turned to run, her feet sank into blood-soaked earth.
She woke with a gasp.
Sweat clung to her skin. The blanket Elias had given her had slipped to the floor, and a cold draft slithered in through the gaps in the window frame. She sat up slowly, clutching her ribs. Her side still ached, the scar beneath her bandage throbbing like it had a heartbeat of its own.
She was alone in the room.
Elias hadn’t said where he was sleeping. The cabin only had one bedroom, and she’d claimed the battered couch. But judging by the silence, he was already awake. Or gone.
She stood, wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
He was there.
At the table, shirtless again, scribbling something onto yellowed paper by candlelight. His back was to her, every muscle carved in shadow. Ink ran down his spine, dark symbols she couldn’t decipher. He didn’t look up when she entered.
“I thought you didn’t sleep,” she said.
“I don’t. Not well.”
She hovered in the doorway, unsure. The fire had gone out. The cabin felt colder than before—like something had shifted in the night.
He finally looked up, and something in his eyes was… off. Not angry. Not afraid. But different. Like he was holding something back.
“You dreamt,” he said, more observation than question.
Calla’s fingers tightened around the blanket. “Yeah.”
“Tell me.”
She frowned. “You want my nightmares now?”
“I want to know what hunts you,” he said simply.
She hesitated. Then crossed the room, sat at the opposite end of the table.
“I saw wolves,” she said quietly. “Eyes like silver. Voices I couldn’t place. They kept calling my name, but I don’t know if they wanted to protect me… or devour me.”
Elias didn’t react. Just stared at the candle’s flame like it held the answer.
“Blood on the ground,” she continued. “And the trees. Like something had already died.”
At that, his jaw clenched.
“You weren’t dreaming,” he said.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“That wasn’t a dream. That was a memory.”
She stared at him. “How would you know?”
“Because I’ve seen that forest,” he said. “Once. A long time ago. The place where blood speaks.”
She scoffed. “You keep saying things like that. Cryptic, half-truth riddles. Just tell me what’s going on.”
Elias rose slowly, the candlelight catching the amber in his eyes.
“Alright,” he said. “Here’s what I know.”
He grabbed a faded book from the counter and dropped it in front of her. It landed with a thud. She opened it carefully. The pages were ancient—drawings of symbols, beasts, and names she couldn’t read.
“This,” Elias said, “is everything my family tried to destroy. Stories of the First Blood. The origins of our kind. And yours.”
She froze. “Mine?”
“There was a time before packs. Before borders. When wolves didn’t belong to Alphas or territories. Back then, the strongest bloodlines carried magic. Wild magic. And the rarest of them bore marks—like yours.”
She glanced down at the bandage beneath her shirt.
“They weren’t born to lead,” he continued. “They were born to choose.”
“Choose what?”
“Which side lives—and which burns.”
The room felt smaller suddenly. The shadows deeper.
“You think I’m one of them,” she whispered.
“I know you are,” Elias said. “You’re the last.”
Calla looked back at the book. One of the sketches showed a woman surrounded by wolves, arms raised, eyes closed. A scar ran down her ribs—just like Calla’s.
“But why don’t I remember anything?”
“Because someone erased it.”
“Who would do that?”
Elias’s expression darkened. “Someone who wanted to control you.”
She felt sick.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “You said I was claimed. What does that mean?”
Elias hesitated. “It means… your bloodline was bound to another. Long ago. It’s ancient magic—prophetic. Dangerous. And if the mark on your body is glowing, it means the bond has returned.”
Her breath caught.
“You think I’m bonded to someone?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “that someone’s already coming for you.”
A silence fell.
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside, her heart thundered.
She met his gaze. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Where do you fall in all this? You’re not just some recluse living in the woods.”
His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“No,” he admitted. “I’m not.”
Calla stood.
Walked around the table.
Stopped just inches from him.
Her voice dropped. “Then what are you?”
He leaned in. Just enough that she could smell the wild on him. Not just pine and ash—but something old. Something buried.
“I’m the last of my line,” he said. “Just like you.”
“And what does that make us?”
He looked down at her. His hand brushed her wrist—light, but enough to send a shock up her spine.
“Either the beginning of something new,” he murmured, “or the end of everything.”
Calla didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
For one terrifying, electric second, she wanted to close the space between them. She didn’t know if it was the bond, the blood, or something else entirely—but it was real. It was alive.
And it scared the hell out of her.
But before she could say anything, the candle sputtered.
Then the front door creaked.
They both turned.
Something—or someone—was outside.
Watching.
- Writer
